Stable Hand
by on-se-reverra
Summary: When John starts working at a stable to pay for his schooling, he doesn't expect to meet anyone as thoroughly insane as Sherlock Holmes. Horsey AU; wrote this on a whim and don't have official plans to continue but probably will anyway because it's fun to write about John the stable hand. Inspired by softwatsonwarmwatson on Tumblr. Rated K for mild language.


_Stroke. _The feeling of coarse, sleek hairs underneath his fingers, clinging to the curves of a hot body. _Stroke. _The dance of dust particles playing in sunbeams, enough to look like a cloud in the light but not enough to make him sneeze. _Stroke. _The warm scent of manure and leather and hay, mingling in the summer air to fill him with the simple happiness that he associated with the stables.

"There you go, boy," John said with a smile, clapping the tall horse on the shoulder and chuckling when his charge snorted in response. "Nice and clean." He allowed his fingers to trail lightly across the horse's side, parallel to the ground, playing across gently heaving flanks and rough whorls of hair. "You worked hard today, didn't you? You might need a bath later." He continued his steady, low monologue as he reached a powerfully muscled hindquarter and long, lean leg, tracing his way down to carefully grip a delicate fetlock. "Let's take a look, mm?" He guided the hoof up now, the limb folding like an accordion to rest on John's knee. His eyes ran quickly around the hoof, paying special attention to the sensitive frog at the center, before he allowed the horse to resettle himself on all four legs. "There's a good boy. Just wanted to make sure." He returned to the great creature's front, patting his neck with long, firm motions before playing his fingers across the finely arched nose. His nostrils flared wide and he huffed loudly, which made John chuckle again. "You're a lovely fellow, aren't you? I bet you're a dream to ride. All swift, smooth movements, hardly a bump even when you're trotting. Are you a jumper, hmm? Or dressage? You could do either, you know. So tall and elegant." John continued to stroke the horse's finely sculpted features, featherlight touches tracing along the curved nose and back around smooth, round cheeks. "You probably love getting out on the course, getting to strut your stuff. I bet you're awfully vain, because you can afford to be. I bet everybody loves you. I bet—"

"Ahem."

John glanced up, and immediately blushed. A young man about his age was standing there, immaculately dressed in a loose white button-down – which frankly was impractical for riding – pale tan breeches, and gleaming black boots that stretched up impossibly long legs and ended just below his knees. A perfectly round black helmet was tucked carelessly under one of his equally lanky arms, the straps dangling across his hip. Clearly one of the sons he'd been told about – which one, he had no idea. They both had ridiculous names. The horse he had been petting tossed his head up in the air and flicked his tail at the same time, a gesture that would have made John laugh if he wasn't so bloody embarrassed.

"Er, hello. I'm just about done here. I'll be off then. Have a nice—"

The boy interrupted in a low, bored-sounding voice. "Left or right?"

"Sorry?"

"Was it your left knee or your right?"

"Left. Sorry, how did you know?"

"How do you feel about the violin?" he continued, as if he hadn't noticed John speaking.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential roommates should know the worst about each other."

John blinked in confusion, absentmindedly reaching up to resume stroking the horse's neck. "Who said anything about roommates?"

"I did. I told Mother yesterday that I'm a difficult person to find a friend for, and now she's hired a new stable boy about my age, clearly just left from boarding school after he lost a football scholarship because of a knee injury. I'm sure she's given you the loft for now but she'll have you moved to my suite before long. She's desperate for me to make friends, wasn't a difficult leap."

"How do you know about the scholarship?"

"My suite's nice, plenty of space for both of us. We ought to fit quite comfortably. We'll meet there tomorrow at seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash," the boy continued, seemingly oblivious to John's presence. "I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

_The mortuary? What the hell was he doing with a riding crop in the mortuary?_

"Is that it?" John demanded, taking a step towards the stall door.

"Is that what?"

"We've just met and we're going to be roommates?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

"I know you're the son of a single mother who could only afford the boarding school you were attending because of a football scholarship and you can't stay there anymore because you've permanently injured your left knee. You've got a father who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't like him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he walked out on your mother. And I know that your doctor thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He leaned across the half-door into the stall, seeming to notice John for the first time. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and I'm in room 221B in the Baker Street building. Afternoon." He winked at John, clucked affectionately at the horse, and strode briskly away, his boots echoing sharply on the hard floor of the aisle.

John turned slowly back to the horse, unsure how to react to Sherlock's peculiar behaviour. Instead, he just ducked to his other side and leaned, worn-out, against his side, his fingers woven tightly through his mane. The horse whickered softly and flicked its tail at a fly, which made John chuckle in a way that turned into a desperate, exhausted sigh. "He's crazy, isn't he?" John whispered fondly at the horse. "You see it too. Sherlock Holmes is absolutely, totally out of his mind."

The horse whickered again.


End file.
